Date: Fri, 2 Aug 2013 19:14:55 -0700 (PDT)
From: Macout Mann <macoutmann@yahoo.com>
Subject: A GOOD SAMARITAN

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This short story is quite different from most of my postings
on nifty.org.  The incident is true.  The circumstances of the trip have
been fictionalized, but the events happened exactly as depicted.

Like G.B. Shaw in "Pygmalion," who only rendered Eliza's first line in
International Phonetics, I have attempted to represent Southern patois only
in the desk clerk's initial speech.  But that is the accent we can expect
from Frank's visitor as well.  Those who have difficulty determining what
the desk clerk says can find a translation at the end of the story.

If you are underage or offended by explicit sexual activity, please read no
further.

I would love to hear from you.  Write me at macoutmann@yahoo.com.

Also, please remember nifty.org with a donation to keep this wonderful
service available to all.


			  A GOOD SAMARITAN STORY

			       A Remembrance

			      by Macout Mann



Frank Schmutz sat on the side of the bed.  A half hour earlier he'd been
dropped back at the motel by his clients after dinner at what passed for
the town's best restaurant.  The food had not been bad, but the town and
the county were dry, and after an afternoon of conferences Frank would have
loved to relax with a drink both before and after his meal.

Instead he was back at the Holiday Inn with nothing to do.  It was a
nice-enough place.  This was the era when Holiday Inns was the world's
largest hospitality company.  Each inn had an ample number of identical
rooms, a swimming pool, a good restaurant, a kennel for visiting dogs, and
where it was legal, a cocktail lounge.  If it had no vacancies, the front
desk would call around to find somewhere else potential lodgers could be
accommodated.  It was certainly the best place in town to stay.

Frank had already called his wife.  When he was away from home that was a
nightly ritual.  He had been happily married for almost twenty-five years,
had a son and a daughter, both in college, and financially he was very well
off.

Frank was an educational consultant.  He specialized in College Financial
Aid problems.  He had been lucky enough to attend an elite eastern
university and had remained after graduation as a member of the college's
admissions staff.  He soon became an expert in determining which students
should get financial help, what kind, and how much.

Before the depression of the 1930s, financial aid at most private schools
took the form of Legacy Scholarships.  Any descendant of Hyrum Smithton of
Stoughton, Massachusetts, might be eligible to have his tuition and
sometimes even his room and board paid in full or in part.  Neither
financial need nor academic qualifications mattered.

In the age of Robber Barons, wealthy industrialists began to endow
scholarships for needy boys that showed real academic promise, often naming
the scholarship for a mentor or protégé, but most often for himself.

During the Great Depression, for the first time some families who had sent
their sons to this or that school for generations could no longer afford to
do so.  So general scholarship funds came into vogue, and a portion of
elite college endowments, some as large as the budgets of the states where
they were chartered, came to be used for financial aid.  Any needy student
who could meet the admissions requirements might apply.

After the Second World War, the cultural significance of a college
education changed radically.  As more and more poor students applied, the
need for financial aid outstripped the amounts budgeted.  That's when
Frank's alma mater invented the student loan.  Students who needed help but
who didn't qualify for full scholarships could borrow up to a specified
amount from the university at a nominal interest rate with a legal
obligation to repay.  And some who needed even more might be given
additional loans with a moral obligation to repay.

From this system sprang the round of grants and federal and private loan
programs, which now burden not only private but state supported
institutions.

It was a Deep South State University with some twenty-thousand students
that Frank was in town to advise.  It had been a hard day, and tomorrow
would be no less difficult.  Some college administrators just didn't get
it.  Frank was no alkie but he really wanted a drink.

More sophisticated clients probably would have feted him at a country club
or the bar of a major hotel.  But even if he'd been left back at his hotel,
there should be bars to go to.  This fucking town was dry!

Despite his current exalted position Frank had been a beneficiary of
financial aid himself.  He considered himself the luckiest bastard in the
world.  He was very smart, and so he went to college on a full tuition
scholarship.  But growing up in Boston, he was a "Southie."  That explains
why, when he arrived back at his room, he shed his $750 J. Press Suit, his
button-down oxford cloth shirt, his silken boxers, and pulled on a tattered
chambray shirt and well-worn Levis 501s.  His wife always gave him hell
when he did that.  "You should at least wear chinos," she'd chide.

He would have loved to go and hit the raunchiest joints in town.  But this
fucking place was dry!

He took the long walk to the front desk, and said to the college-age clerk,
"There has to be someplace to get a drink around here, son."

"Wayul, suh," the skinny-looking boy drawled, "thair's lickuh stows dowun
et Maw-gun.  It's craws thuh caun-ti lion, `baut fiteen myuls bak toad thuh
sidi."*

Frank was really glad that he'd turned down his clients' offer to pick him
up at the metropolitan airport and had rented a car instead.  He thanked
the clerk for the information and began the eastward drive down the
interstate.  The weather had been threatening all day, and now he was
treated to a huge downpour, so hard he could hardly see the highway.

He did find a liquor store and opted to buy a cold six-pack.

Driving back he saw a drenched hitchhiker, visible only because of the
flashes of lightning.  Being a Good Samaritan, Frank stopped.

The dome light let him see that his passenger was in his early twenties.
His matted black hair was soaked and both his sopping denim jacket and
threadbare jeans had seen better days.  But he was ruggedly good looking
and showed a dazzling smile as he thanked Frank for picking him up.  He
closed the door and the car was again plunged into darkness.

Frank learned that the boy was a house painter.  He worked for a guy who
had decided to take a few days off between jobs, so he was headed home, a
few towns further west.

Frank's motel was only a hundred yards from the interstate exit, and the
storm was still raging.  So Frank suggested that his passenger come to his
room until the rain abated.  He could join Frank in a beer or two.

The room had the standard table at the window with two chairs, so the two
of them sat, enjoyed their brews, and chatted about nothing in particular.

Frank had done some construction work summers, when he was in high school.
"So you can paint a ceiling without spattering stuff all over the floor?"
he asked.

"Now I can," his guest laughed.  "When I started I couldn't even dip a
fuckin' brush in a can without getting paint on me or somethin'."

"I've done some construction in my time," Frank rejoined.  "Painting wasn't
my favorite thing.  But drywall finishing was the worst.  I've known guys
that could take mud and just go swish and it'd be as smooth as a baby's
ass.  It'd take me an hour to do one seam."

"I know what you mean.  I've had to put up some sheetrock.  Paintin's a
whole lot easier.  My boss still says I'm a fuckin' beginner, though."

"You work for him long?"

"Ever since I left school.  He's an o.k. guy.  Likes to take time off, like
now.  Some guys would hate to lose the pay; but I figure if I've got enough
clothes so I don't get arrested in the summertime or freeze to death in the
wintertime, have a good meal every so often, a few beers every so often,
get a nut every so often—shit, that's all a growin' boy's gotta have."

"I can relate to that," Frank mused.  "How old's your boss?" he asked.

"'Bout forty, I guess.  He's got a pretty little wife though.  Younger than
him.  And they have a kid in elementary school."

"You play any sports in school?" Frank asked, changing the subject.

"Nah.  I'm not big enough for football, not tall enough for basketball, and
that's about all folks are interested in around here."  Frank's guest did
demonstrate the universal interest in football by singing the praises of
the state's sole AAA football program at its flagship university.  "Maybe
next year we can be number one in the nation again!"

Frank found it interesting that the kid had never been to a game or even
set foot on the university's campus but was so avid in his support of the
football team that he could comment on every play of every game.

An hour and a half later they had finished the beer and Frank was ready for
bed.  The rain was still coming down.  "You're not going to get a ride in
this downpour," he said.  "You can sleep here if you want.  I've only got
one bed but it's a big one."

"You don't mind?" Frank was asked.

"Wouldn't have offered if I did."

"Thanks a million, man."

Frank got up, crossed to the bed, and stripped off as usual.  He climbed
under the sheet and pulled up the covers.

"Can I sleep naked too?" his guest asked.

"Sure," Frank groggily replied.  "I don't give a shit."

The kid got in on the other side of the king sized bed and Frank flipped
off the lamp and lay on his back.  A minute or so later he felt a hand
embrace his dick.

Now Frank spent lots of nights away from home, and he took advantage of the
opportunity to have sex with either women or men about as often as he
could.  He'd been introduced to fun with guys by a couple of construction
workers when he was in high school.  But he'd had no thought of messing
around with this guy.  They'd not talked about sex of any kind.  So he was
really surprised.

"Hmmm," he murmured.  "Feels good."

His partner didn't answer.  He simply fingered Frank's tool until it was
fully hard and up to its full eight inches.  Then he threw back the covers
and went down.  The boy's mouth slobbering on Frank's dick felt especially
great, since it was so unexpected.

After a couple of minutes of passionate sucking the younger man straddled
Frank's torso and sat down on his well moistened rod.  It easily plunged
all the way into the kid's ass.  It had obviously been well used.

Up and down the boy slid.  Slowly at first, Frank's full length massaged
his prostate.  Frank wished that he could turn on a light to see the young
guy's face, but he didn't want to break the spell.  He just lay back and
savored the feeling of passively fucking the asshole of a youngster whose
name he didn't even know.

Frank felt that the kid made it last as long as he could, but finally the
pace of his movements sped up, the length of Frank's involuntary thrusts
were shortened, until finally Frank's balls sent the biggest gush he could
remember into his partner's willing colon.

The kid tumbled over on the other side of the bed and pulled the covers
back up.  They were both exhausted and quickly fell asleep.

When Frank awoke, the rain has stopped.  It was just before sunrise.  The
young painter was up and pulling on his clothes.  He let himself out of the
room to continue his hitch home.

His destination was less than an hour's drive away.  Frank was on the verge
of calling, "Come back.  Let me have more of that ass, and I'll drive you
where you want to go."

Then he figured it would be embarrassing, if he wasn't back at the motel by
the time his clients came to pick him up.  So he remained silent, and dozed
off again.  His wake up call interrupted a dream about what might have
happened.

                                                  THE END

_____________________________

*"Well, sir, there's liquor stores down at Morgan.  It's across the county
line about fifteen miles toward the city."

Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann.  All rights reserved.